


Too Alike

by Checkerbox



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, M/M, dorian is not amused by any kind of irreverent discussion of his biggest life betrayal no, just a small one shot to blow off creative steam, same slightly morally dubious inquisitor from my other fic but different relationship context
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 10:06:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18892456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Checkerbox/pseuds/Checkerbox
Summary: As befitting a man titled the "Inquisitor", Trevelyan desires understanding of most things. Unfortunately for Dorian, his methods when it comes to understanding the actions of one Halward Pavus leave quite a bit to be desired.Or, in other words, Trevelyan does what Cole attempted to do with a quarter of the tact and understanding and the obvious consequences follow.





	Too Alike

“Your father doesn’t make sense to me.”

Trevelyan’s declaration came as a bit of an icy shock to Dorian, as it did not come at the heels of that awful evening in Redcliff, during the trek back to Skyhold, or at their discussion afterwards. It came much, much later, as the two of them were quietly reading books in an alcove of the library together. Dorian was in his chair with an old text on the manipulation of fade casting balanced across his leg, and Trevelyan was sitting on a cushion with a book on Orlesian theater scripts on his knees. The subject of his father had not in fact come up more than twice the entire time, and not recently.

“My father doesn’t make sense to _you_?” Dorian said once he’d gotten his bearings back. Total non-sequiturs were not _entirely_ unusual for “Thedas’ last hope”, after all. “Imagine how it is for _me_. I’ve been puzzling over him for most of my life.”

“I like solving puzzles.” Trevelyan looked up at the ceiling before closing the book in his lap. “Maybe I can work this one out so it makes sense for me. While we’re together.”

This only seemed to provoke a pained—and tired—expression on Dorian’s face. “Not that I mind the idea of you _ruminating_ on my familial struggles, but must you include me in this? And now?”

“I must now, yes.” When Dorian scowled and returned his eyes to the chapter on enhancing barriers through ambient magic, Trevelyan let out a huff. “I can speculate out loud without your input, as well.”

“Do.” Perhaps never before had a single word been laced with such sarcasm.

For a few tense moments there was silence, long enough that Dorian began to think that maybe no out-loud speculation was going to take place. But then Trevelyan took in a breath, words slow from thought, eyes shifting a little as though sorting through invisible information before him. “So, I am Halward Pavus—”

“Evidently my relationship with my father is more twisted than I thought,” Dorian said dryly, turning a page of his textbook.

Trevelyan gave him a little glare at the interruption but quickly continued again. “ _I am Halward Pavus_ , and I am from a very distinguished line of mages. I have married a woman I despise solely because we’ll produce an incredibly talented heir together. I care very much about reforming Tevinter. It is important to me that my legacy reflects this.”

Dorian snorted. “I think you are underestimating the impact of political ambition on him.”

“You think so? Alright, fine. –So, I wish to have a high political office, and I want my son to inherit that office. I want him to be the best of the brightest, because it makes _me_ look good.” After a moment he added, “And to use that office to reform Tevinter.”

“—There you go again, why does reform need to enter the conversation at all?”

“What does he need the power for?” Trevelyan countered. “He’s already rich. You already grew up in luxury. He could just keep his head down and keep what he has.”

“Not in Tevinter,” Dorian snarled. “Anyone who has anything is ripped to shreds by social piranha clambering for their leftovers. There’s no such thing as clawing your way to comfort and staying there.”

“I see. Alright then. So, Tevinter has tall poppy syndrome,” Trevelyan said, eyebrows pinched in thought. “And Dorian is a very tall poppy indeed…”

“You must think you are being so amusing,” Dorian said, looking back down at his book but clearly no longer reading it. “Fine, carry on with whatever madness you wish. I won’t let it bother me.”

“The point is not to bother you. The point is to understand.” Trevelyan paused, taking a moment to resume his train of thought. When he spoke next, it was in imitation of Halward Pavus’ accent. A bad one. “It would be short-sighted of me to let him fall into that shark pit with any flaw that his opponents can capitalize on.”

It was almost criminal, how easy he was to rise to the bait. “What, in the name of Divine Justinia’s glowing green ashes, is _that?_ ”

“That’s how he sounds, isn’t it?”

“ _No_ , that is not how he sounds. You’re making him sound _Antivan_. Either make it sound good or don’t attempt at all.”

“…Fine.” When he spoke again it was with his Marcher accent, albeit lower in an attempt to sound grating and deep. “I have a problem. Dorian, my only heir, prefers the company of men.”

“’Dorian’ is starting to have serious doubts about his _taste_ in men,” said mage retorted, though any amusement that had been lingering on his face at all, bitter or otherwise, was gone. “We know all this. You were _there_.”

“Yes. We were all there. Tevinter demands perfection, and in all ways but one, Dorian is perfect. But it’s not the fact that he likes men that’s the problem, no. It’s that he doesn’t want to be ashamed of it. He doesn’t want to bury his feelings in his romantic life, pick someone for status over love. Like I did.”

Only silence greeted that statement. Trevelyan cleared his throat and continued. “After years of fighting I realize this is not something I can simply talk him out of. He’s incapable of listening to reason. He says he doesn’t want to live a lie, okay. Fine. What if I found a way to make it not a lie, but the truth?”

At that, Dorian shut his book with a loud _thwap._ Trevelyan paused and looked over at him again.

“Oh, by all means. _Continue._ ”

As he stood, he stumbled a little on the cushion. In greater space to move, he began to add more dramatic gesturing to accompany his performance. “Blood magic is terrible! The last resort of the weak, and the desperate! I am not weak.” He paused, putting a hand to his chin. “But I _am_ desperate.”

The air in the library had changed. Conversations undertaken in the background had ceased. The candles spread through the little alcove in which the two of them had been reading flared a little brighter.

All of this slipped by without notice. “Well, I—me, right here—don’t know much about the ritual, but it was probably something very complicated, probably needed at least two slave sacrifices, probably would take a few hours to complete properly.” Dorian gave a stiff nod, which seemed to satisfy Trevelyan enough to continue with the theatrics. “So! A little _magic_ , and poof! It no longer eats my son alive inside to love a woman, preferably the one I have picked out for him. Then, he lives his life happy while still being everything I want.”

“What a marvelous idea.” The words were dripping with venom. “Has all the finesse of hammering a square peg to fit into a round hole.”

“But I’m right. And everyone who disagrees with me is an idiot. …My son is not an idiot, but he’s very misled, and a father’s job is to put their children on the right path.” Trevelyan frowned slightly, hmmed to himself as though in agreement. “So, I have found a perfect solution. …Well, I must keep it a secret from Dorian, of course.”

Dorian asked, teeth clenched, “Oh yes? _Why_ must you keep it a secret from Dorian?”

“Because he has been impossible lately! He spites me at every turn,” Trevelyan said as he turned, trying to look serious but far too over the top to succeed. “He would reject the idea out of sheer stubbornness, and run away from home again. So, it must be kept secret until I am ready to use it on him. When he is perfect, and every bit as successful as me, he’ll thank me.”

“ _Thank you?_ ” Dorian had never had the opportunity to properly speak with Halward. They had left the inn before the two of them could really talk, before he could ask questions. At the time, staying in that room any longer had been unbearable. Now, the things that had been left unsaid, the questions that had gone unanswered, were what was unbearable. “And what if it _fails?_ What if it reduces my mind to _syrup_? What about that, _Father?_ ”

Trevelyan made an affected scoff, a dismissive wave of his hand. “That won’t happen.”

The volume of Dorian’s voice rose. “And _how_ can you possibly know that?”

“I am a Pavus!” There, Trevelyan adopted an expression of such utter smugness that it was hard not to punch him on sight. He was grinning. “I am perfect, and brilliant, and an expert in all things magic. I know what I’m doing, and there is no way I would ever mess up that badly. In fact, I--”

“Stop.”

Engrossed in his charade, Trevelyan startled somewhat at the firm tone being directed at him. “What?”

Dorian had graduated to a full-on glare. “I don’t like this exercise.”

The other man tilted his head in the way he tended to, like a confused mabari with a small bird in its jaws. “Why not? Am I being too accurate?”

“Too accurate?” Indignance suffused Dorian’s tone as he set his book down on the shelf nearest him, brow dropping low over his eyes. “ _You’re making him sound like me_.”

And instead of disagreeing, he replied, “Is he not like you? Did you not learn your values from your father? Was he not the scion of House Pavus before you? I think perhaps if you were a little older, a bit less idealistic—”

“You are _WRONG_.” The shout seemed to reverberate through the suddenly silent library, and Trevelyan went still and quiet, and stared. “I am _nothing_ like him, and you would do well to never say that again.”

He did not respond, but the churlish irritation on his face did most of the speaking for him, before it vanished. Dorian growled under his breath.

“—Look, this whole business may have been going somewhere, heading for some sort of catharsis, but now it’s just _giving me a headache_. So can we just—be quiet and go back to reading, please?”

When nothing more was said, he took that as an agreement and went to pick up his text again, flipping through the pages before finally arriving at where he had been before. The air around them returned to normal, the candles dimmed, and for a moment it seemed like the quiet afternoon that they had started with would be salvageable after all.

He didn’t get two sentences in before Trevelyan said, casually, “If I killed him, would you be very upset?”

Dorian threw his book to the ground, hard enough that the other man and several of the other patrons in the library jumped at the thud. He stood, and though they were roughly the same height he towered over him as he started to speak. “Would you like me to play this game, hm? Needle and pester you on everything that hurts you, everything you don’t want to think about yourself? We could talk about your own father. Tell me, Alexiel, how similar are you to the moral absolutist who threw you to the Templars the moment you were old enough for the training? Did you jump for joy when he was buried in the ground?”

There was a kind of savage enjoyment in watching him cower, not afraid but stepping backward as Dorian advanced and eyeing him warily. He had to redirect himself midway so that he didn’t hit the railing. “That’s not—”

“No, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you are so incapable of understanding. You never cared _anything_ for your own family, did you? I would be positively _shocked_ if you had _one_ person that mattered to you your entire childhood.” He gave out a harsh laugh. Trevelyan’s face contorted, and he started blinking rapidly. “Or—” Dorian paused. “You do, don’t you? Your sister?”

The other man started to look panicked. “Dorian—”

“What if I were to start pontificating on why she never wrote to you from the Circle, hm?” He jabbed Trevelyan in the chest for emphasis, and he fell back heavily into Dorian’s chair. “What if we did a point by point analysis on how you are _exactly_ like the people who sent her away in the first place? Would you like me to do that? Hm? Or speculate on why she never showed up at the Conclave? These are burning questions, aren’t they? How come we’re not _picking at them_? That’s what you like to do, _isn’t it_?”

Trevelyan said nothing. Could say nothing. He was breathing heavily, expression severe but twitching in a way that suggested he was forcing it to hide a different one.

“No? Yes, I rather suspected not.” Everyone was staring when Dorian turned around. He paid them no mind, striding to the stairs quickly enough that sheets of paper on a nearby desk fluttered nervously to the floor from the gust in his wake. “I need a fucking drink.”

 

* * *

 

 

Trevelyan found him the following evening not in Skyhold’s main library, but the private one down below that they would often go to when they wished to be away from prying eyes and noisy birds. He was sitting at a small table that they’d set up to have a surface to put wineglasses on that wasn’t covered in fragile books. Though Dorian was only reading there now.

It was almost second nature to sneak, footfalls light on the ground in his custom boots, and so Trevelyan knocked on the wall a little to signal his entry. He received nothing but a disdainful sniff.

With a bit of leaning he was able to catch the title of the text he was reading, the same book from yesterday. With roughly the same amount of progress, it seemed. He tried a joke first; “Surely you could think of something less dry to pass the time. Like Brother Genitivi’s treatise on the mating habits of bogfishers.”

Nothing. The silence ached. The walls around them were bitterly cold, and he could feel it seeping into his bones as he stood there.

“No? Well, I suppose you’re always the intellectual, aren’t you? Maybe understanding it makes it more palatable.”

The forced smile dropped from his expression as he observed, trying to read the slightest, minute reaction in the mage’s body language. There was nothing. Not a twitch. Intentional, then.

“I…” He paused. In his hands he had a bottle of alcohol, and a mug of beer from the tavern. “…I brought you some…peace offerings.”

It was only then that Dorian chose to acknowledge him, face as carefully neutral as his voice. “Oh?”

“Yes.” There another point of hesitation, looking between his two hands. Eventually he set down the bottle first. Dorian reached over to inspect it. “This one is an Antivan Brandy. Everyone saw me buying it. …Everyone is able to…connect the dots that this is an apology present for our—rather vocal quarrel yesterday.” Then he set down the mug. “This is your real present. Some of that Fereldan swill from Herald’s Rest that you keep pretending not to like.”

The scowl that got leveled at him for that was impressive, but eventually Dorian reached for the mug. “You know me too well. You could at least pretend to be fooled.”

“But then you wouldn’t have the drink you prefer.”

“Hm.” Dorian drank, and said nothing.

The chair across from him creaked a little as Trevelyan sat down at the small table, posture rigid and slightly hunched. Eventually, he said, slight as a murmur, “I’m sorry, for being so…”

Dorian glanced up, a little bit of beer foam clinging to his mustache. “Completely lacking in empathy?”

A wince. “Yes. That.”

After a moment, the book was gently closed and pushed to the side. “Continue.”

“I—I do like picking at things, you’re right. I was being an ass. Especially that—that last part. I didn’t need to ask, I’m not stupid, I know the answer.” He risked a cautious glance. Dorian was still drinking, though he had slowed to sips now. “The thing is, I don’t know your father. I just know you. And if you don’t hate him—if any of the wonderful things you _are_ came from him—then I can’t just hate him either. But I also can’t reconcile that with—with—”

“You think it’s any easier for me?” Dorian’s voice was suddenly, dangerously close to angry again. “You think I don’t constantly ask myself how the man I grew up idolizing could do what he did? Could abandon all of his morals because I was _that much_ of a problem?”

Almost imperceptibly, Trevelyan flinched. “—No. No, I didn’t say that.”

“It’s not as if the things you said were _wholly_ inaccurate, were they?” He laughed, and it was that harsh, _mean_ sound again. “In many ways I am like him. I once wanted to be him, so badly. Even when I was cavorting about and making a general nuisance of myself in my ‘troubled’ youth, in the back of my mind I wished I could live up to his standard. And now, the thought of us having _anything_ in common is—is--” Then he broke off with a disgusted snarl.

“I’m sorry.”

The words were quiet, and calm, like trying to apply ice to a bruise. Trevelyan cautiously reached for Dorian’s hand, and while it earned him a rebuffed look, the gesture was not rejected.

Eventually the tension softened. “So…Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way I, in turn, apologize for losing my temper with you. The things I said—they were unearned, and undeserving. I know your…sister in particular is a sore point, and I am sorry for bringing that up.”

Trevelyan looked down at the desk, idly tapping on its surface with his free index finger. “It was a very good rhetorical strategy.”

Dorian chuckled, though briefly. “I wouldn’t call it rhetoric. The idea was more to retaliate.”

“Yes, and it worked very well.” The statement hung there for a moment before Trevelyan cleared his throat and followed it up with, “I feel—I feel very comfortable with you, Dorian. I always think I have to hold myself back, or…pretend to be something else to make myself acceptable, and I’ve never felt such in your company. I would hate to find that this part of me is…upsetting to you.”

Dorian sighed, reaching out a hand to run through Trevelyan’s hair. Almost immediately he seemed to melt gratefully into the touch, closing his eyes. “Yes, well…be sensitive on this one issue and I promise to be as callous as you please on murder, demons, and that barbaric butchery of woodland creatures you love so much.”

Trevelyan murmured, voice lilting in a way that was well practiced by now. “Hunting is a _noble sport,_ Dorian.”

That earned him a chuckle. “Well, I don’t mind it when we get to have August Ram instead of those Blighted rations that the scouts give us. But you could at least skin the corpse away from where we’re _eating_. We must have _some_ civility, after all.”

“Duly noted.”

Dorian shot a dark look at the walls around them, standing. “This place,” he said, picking up the bottle of brandy and leaving his mostly-empty mug. “Is utterly depressing. I remember now why I prefer reading upstairs despite all the crow shit on the railing. Too dark.”

“We could go to the gardens, if you like.” Trevelyan steepled his fingers thoughtfully. “Lots of sunlight there.”

“No, Morrigan is sure to find us. Or Cullen, or Mother Giselle, or _someone_ looking to steal your attention from me. Somewhere more private, I think.”

“The windows in my quarters have an excellent view of the sky, darling Dorian.”

He grinned wickedly. “Now, there’s an idea.”

**Author's Note:**

> I get really nervous that if I indulge other fic ideas it’s going to sap my energy for writing the longer ones. But, if I work exclusively on one story for weeks and weeks on end, all it really does is drain me of ideas and energy. So! I took a little break from writing my Venatori fic to write something more in my playthrough's “canon”, since it's unlikely I'll do a lot of writing for it otherwise. Mostly the idea was just to have Dorian get angry at my Inquisitor over something. I hope someone other than me finds it entertaining in some way.


End file.
